


something useful to do with sadness

by seamanthedog



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Divergence - Post-Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Drug Use, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-02-23 08:34:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23342002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seamanthedog/pseuds/seamanthedog
Summary: Draco knows he only has his past and his name. He’s trying to forget both, but that’s hard to do when the past won’t leave him alone and says his name like that.Or Draco fumbles with forgiveness, trauma, and Harry Potter.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 3
Kudos: 9





	1. a certain satisfaction in bitterness

**Author's Note:**

> Had to post this before it deleted in my drafts lol. Not sure what I’m doing with this.

The pub lay half in shadows and half in smoke. On a Tuesday, the only patrons were the weekday haunts. Patrons too worried from work and life and there to drink until the minutes turned into a blur. It’s just as well for him. It was easy to get lost behind a glass here, with other bodies just trying to get by, he wasn’t his past or his name. The bartender, Randy, inclined his head toward him and dropped his eyes to Draco’s glass. It was empty again. He gave a solid nod and it refilled with a simple flick of Randy’s wand. Magic had some good uses afterall.

The taste was somewhere between bitter and more bitter but Draco didn’t drink for the taste. Although, when he used to break into his parent’s liquor there had been a small bottle of something that tasted like chocolate. It wrecked him for two days and caused him to hiccup bubbles. His mother had worried, voice shrill as she scolded him, while his father had been furious. There was never a time when he wasn’t. The words, “stupid boy,” peppered with a backhand had him seeing stars. It was still the only liquor he dreamt about for the taste. He didn’t remember the name.

An unpleasant half smile slipped onto his face. He could always pay Lucius a visit and get the name. The thought had him burying the smile into his glass. Halfway to his lips, Draco cast his gaze out. He paused and his eyes caught on a familiar form—The Boy Who Lived folded into a corner. Even if he hadn’t seen the dark hair scrubbed back to reveal the famous scar, Draco would recognize the outline. Too many hours had been spent thinking about that outline—thinking of ways to enrage and bully and win in whatever eternal fight two boys on opposing sides should want to win.

Potter’s glasses were tossed onto the table as he rubbed the bridge of his nose.

Draco brought his glass the rest of the way to his lips and finished it off. He had no intention of catching Potter’s attention. The war had ended with clear winners and his lot had fallen far. It burned. Losing always did. A year after the war, another year after finishing Hogwarts, and a final year of listlessness helped ease that burn. All that was left was the gaping wound of a destroyed family and a mountain of shame. Lucky for him money bought an endless supply of patchwork bandaids to bury the shame. 

Draco let the buzz of three drinks carry him. He wanted to slink away and nurse his wounds, like any other night, but wherever The Boy Who Lived was the world revolved around him.

Two men, in their cups and well on the way to pissed, crashed their way into Potter’s booth.

“Oy, it’s Harry Potter!”

Potter bore it well enough, a grimaced smile on his face while his eyes dodged around in search of an out. That was Draco’s queue to leave. Slipping some bills on the bar, he sidled off his stool. He should have known the motion would attract attention. Harry looked too much like a wounded animal, face on the verge of panic, when their eyes met. Sour apple green and rimmed with nothing but sleeplessness and apathy. They weren’t far off from what Draco remembered. The apathy was new, but not being the saviour of the world every year probably led to a less exciting life.

“Sign this, my brother’s gonna piss himself when he finds out I met the boy who killed You-Know-Who!”

The larger of the men, with a red blotchy complexion, grinned and slid a napkin across the table. Potter only stared at it, before he looked up once more to catch Draco’s gaze. Except, Draco was at the door. Harry was already his own hero and Draco wasn’t about to rescue him from an over excited fan.

The rest of the conversation faded once he apparated home.

–––––

The rest of the week Draco went back to the bar and drank. There were no more Potter sightings. His shoulders relaxed. Drinking always tasted better alone and without thinking about his past.

The following Tuesday, when he entered and headed to his usual stool, there were oblivious green eyes trained on him. Potter never took a hint. Somehow, Draco ended up across from Harry. It wasn’t by choice.

Potter fiddled with his empty glass. It was awkward, of course it was. The last he’d seen of Harry his family had left the Great Hall amid the victory celebrations and never looked back. Draco didn’t hate Harry, not like he did when they were still in school and enemies. It was laughable, the things he thought were reasons to hate Potter; a half-blood, muggle-raised, and too self-righteous by half and completely uninterested in Draco’s friendship. Malfoy’s always got what they wanted and if they didn’t they just bought it. But, there Potter was, eyes the size of saucers taking in Hogwarts and completely unimpressed with what Draco offered.

Now, though, he just hated him for destroying his life.

“Potter are you going to speak or just sit there like a mute?” The words tumbled out dripping with condescension. They were back at Hogwarts and Draco was bating, to get one more word in, one more second of the great Boy Who Lived’s time. Harry glanced up then, fingers stilling on his glass.

Confusion swam across his face until it gave way to a sheepish apology. “Sorry, I was just thinking. It’s been awhile.”

He was not going to have small talk with Potter. His grip tightened on his glass and he began to stand to leave.

Harry lifted his hand, halfway between them and like he wanted to grab Draco’s wrist. Apprehension mired Potter’s gaze and Draco paused. “Wait—I.” A pause and look of determination, familiar and cloying, spread across Harry’s face. "When I saw you, I thought we should talk. It’s been awhile.” Draco watched Harry’s hand drop like a lead weight and fingers grip the edge of the table. His lips pressed into a thin line but Draco shifted to sit down slowly again. If Potter wanted to talk he would have to be the one to do it. Draco did not have any demons he needed to chase. He raised his eyebrows, giving his best ‘well speak’ look.

Harry wasn’t shy. 6 years in classes together and he’d watched him speak out of turn countless times. Potter made it known what he thought so Draco wanted to scoff at the shy act. He watched him swallow and take several quick drinks.

“I don’t have all night” Draco snapped.

“Sorry.” Draco watched him look down and away, so unlike the challenge in school. Harry took a deep breath before his eyes snapped to Draco’s. There it was. Potter wasn’t shy and he saw it in the resolved gaze. He let out an exhale of his own. He didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath. Potter used to do that to him. Make him feel like he couldn’t breath.

“How have you been?” Harry winced after the words left his mouth and Draco felt the same.

“How do you think?” He wasn’t making this easy and noted it in the tight grip Potter had on his glass. For his part, Draco took another sip from his glass and made it a point to check his watch. He had better things to do with his night than spend it rehashing old memories.

“Sorry, I just.” Harry shrugged and grimaced. “I didn’t get a chance to talk to you after everything...and I—”

Draco cut him off, tongue burning with sudden venom, “What makes you think I would want to talk to you about anything?”

Harry raised his hand in silent surrender. He looked at Draco with wounded eyes. “Sorry, I wasn’t implying that you would want to.”

“Stop saying sorry.” Draco bit out, his anger deflating as he took another drink. He thought he’d gotten rid of all his anger but Potter seemed to know exactly what to say to bring it out. The infuriating thing was Draco knew Harry wasn’t doing it on purpose. And that made him angrier.

Harry blew air out with a heavy sigh and pushed his glasses up. “Well, I’m in training to be an auror now. I’m almost done with my third course.” 

“I know.”

“You do?” Harry’s eyes widened in surprise. Draco rolled his.

“Of course. You can’t open the bloody paper without seeing some headline about The Boy Who Lived’s life.”

Potter’s eyebrows pinched together and had the audacity to look upset. “Oh, yeah...I think someone in my class is taking secret photos and sending them to the Prophet.

“And you don’t want that, your face splashed all over?”

Harry shook his head sharply. “I never want that.”

Draco shrugged. He didn’t believe him. “Why don’t you just find out who it is? From what I remember that’s what you and your little band of followers lived for.”

Potter shook his head. His hair was shorter and just covered the top of his scar. It was still unruly but looked like it had been tamed in some way to stay in place.

“Shouldn’t you be able to figure out who it is?”

He sighed. “It’s not that simple. Right now with some of the Death Eaters still out there, there’s not much free time while in training to do anything other than search and train.” Potter’s shoulders slumped and he suddenly downed the rest of his glass. There was an exhaustion that permeated from him. Draco had avoided looking too hard but he caught the rumpled cloak and tie, the faded circles under his eyes, the weariness that peaked out at him behind glasses.

“Auror training too tough for you, Potter?” The biting taunt slipped out with ease. Harry’s gaze fell at the words and he shook his head imperceptibly.

“Not too tough...just.” Harry squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Not what I expected.” Draco narrowed his eyes with a calculated shrewdness.

“Are you telling me that after all the fighting and death, you don’t want to be an auror? Wow. I’m shocked.” Draco affected a bitterly sarcastic tone and raised his eyebrows at him. Harry shrugged and had the audacity to laugh, a sheepish grin appearing on his face.

“I don’t know...I thought it would be easier, after all the fighting, to do more of it.”

“Potter, kicked dogs don’t go back to be kicked more.”

He sighed and nodded. “Yeah, I guess. But, I’m almost through with the program. They’ll send me on my first assignment soon.”

“Tell them to bugger off then. You’re about the only one who could get away with it.”

“But what would I do?”

Draco raised an eyebrow in challenge, “Why do you have to do anything?”

“Well, because...I can’t not do something...I was really bad after, you know...Ron and Hermoine helped, but they had to force me to get out of the house, my room.”

“Did you ever have hobbies, Potter?”

“I played Quidditch.”

“Outside of school?”

“Well—no.”

“What did you do when you weren’t in school?”

“Chores. Cooking. Wishing I was at Hogwarts.”

Draco shook his head. He could almost feel sorry for Potter. Almost.

“Fuck, no wonder you turned into such a wash.”

Potter didn’t rankle, only shook his head. “Well, if you’re such an expert on how to get on with life, what do you do?”

Draco laughed and called for another round. “This.”

A server brought more drinks and he downed them as well. “I tinker with a few things too. Don’t you know the Malfoy name is piss now? No one’s got any use for a former Death Eater and traitor to purebloods. I’m twice the fuck up!”

To prove a point, he flashed the dark mark on his forearm, except it wasn’t much of a dark mark and more of a mass of raised scars. They criss-crossed each other until all that was left was an angry blackness raised and split with silvery undertones.

Potter stared at his arm long enough that the back of Draco’s neck prickled. He pulled his arm back and green eyes lifted to meet his. Shame, hot and ugly spiked down his throat. It was his daily reminder to not forget who he was.

“You aren’t to blame Draco.” Potter using his first name caused him to clench his fists. His fingers dug into his palms and he stood abruptly. Nails tore into flesh and he knew there was blood without looking. 

“I don’t need your fucking forgiveness or pity Potter.” The words ripped from him in a scathing retort and he blinked back the tears that blurred his vision.

“Wait—!”

Draco grabbed his jacket and apparated before he could hear anymore. If he cared enough about his fingers, he’d have been worried about getting splinched.


	2. a ghost in the hall outside

Draco stopped going to the bar after that. It rankled him to be forced away from one of the only places he enjoyed and by Potter no less. Even when he’d pried every last piece of Harry from his life, he somehow managed to ooze his way back in. Potter was a shadow that clouded everything. Even in the Malfoy mansion, glittery and sterile, the whisper of what happened remained. The fear and desperation of Harry and his friends lived within the walls. Sometimes, Hermione’s screams chased him down the halls and the memories bled into his dreams. A dark part of him, the one that fed his guilt and shame, half wished he’d told Bellatrix. Just to see the look in Potter’s eyes—to see the defeat in that sharp green gaze. He woke to visions of Harry’s swollen and bloody face, the words “it’s him,” an echo of what could have been that jolted him awake. But, Malfoy manor was where he belonged. His ancestral home and coffin. 

Draco’s hands ran along the banister as he made his way to the sun room. He stood at the threshold and inhaled deeply. His mother always told him to remain calm and poised, her voice almost always critical but affectionate, “No one likes an angry young man.” His gaze caught on the large window that took up half the wall as he stepped inside. It was a nice day out. The last days of summer mixed with fall’s chill to create a perfect breeze and cloudless sky. Not too hot and not too cold, but on the precipice. The sun shone bright and glittered off small glass figures encased in trophy cases. They were small things, flowers mostly, handcrafted and polished every day by a loving hand. 

The loving hand belonged to his mother. She sat facing the window. A blanket covered her lap as one of the house elves floated a pot of tea to a table next to her. Draco entered and sat in a chair beside her. He reached out to take her hand. The bones shifted beneath her soft papery skin and he lifted it to his lips to kiss.

“How are you today, mother?”

Her gaze took a moment to focus as she turned her head to smile at him. “I’m well, thank you Draco. How was school, excited for your holiday?”

Draco forced a smile.

It was usually the same conversation. The same memories played over and over again. His mother had been on a loop since his father was sent to Azkaban. They had a falling out long before that, but Malfoy’s didn’t divorce, and somewhere in her, he knew she still loved him. Even after everything, the fall from grace, the punishment, the cowardice. Whatever his mother saw in Lucius, Draco couldn’t see.

“It was fine and yes, mother.”

“Good. I’m glad you’re home. Your father will be pleased to hear.” 

His jaw clenched and he bit his tongue. An acidic remark would only upset her, so he shifted the conversation.

“I saw Harry Potter recently.” The name dropping was usual fodder, but Draco wished he could take back that particular name. Rather than frown, like Draco expected, Narcissa just inclined her head slightly and a corner of her mouth drifted upward into a light smile. 

“Oh? Is his hair still unruly?” Lifting her cup of tea with thin fingers, she took a sip. “Those muggles of his really need to give him a haircut. He’s such a handsome boy to look so unkempt.” 

Not knowing how to respond, Draco drank his tea as well. His mother’s gaze rested on him and her eyebrows lifted imperceptibly. There was something almost shrewd and thoughtful as she looked. He cleared his throat and lifted his shoulders in a nonchalant shrug. “He was as unkempt as ever. I don’t think he knows what personal hygiene is. Living with all those muggles and such.” 

Narcissa smiled, a scarce bright thing. A smile Draco remembered before the ghosts haunted her. 

“Don’t tell your father this, but I think you two could be great friends. I know your Slytherin friends all have superior breeding, but sometimes you need a little Gryffindor fun.” It was a rare day to see her so playful that Draco struggled to respond. He settled for questioning her, curious of this particular past. 

“Mother, are you suggesting you had Gryffindor fun?”

She set her tea down demurely and smoothed out a non existent wrinkle on her lap. “Although your father knows otherwise, he was not the only boy I happened to have fun with.” 

His jaw almost dropped, it was a close thing, but years of etiquette left him to only stare in shock. “Mother!” Draco was floored at the revelation. For most of his life, Draco had assumed the story of his parents being the only ones for each other. Or at least, his father had told him his mother had remained “pure,” for him. 

“Don’t act shocked Draco! I know your father had his own trysts before me. I think a girl in Ravenclaw...no maybe two in Ravenclaw?” Her head tilted up in thought. She waved her hand after a moment. “Regardless, a dalliance here or there in school won’t hurt you. And your father would forgive you as long as a pureblood marriage is secured down the line.” There were several things Draco tried to process all at once. But the one his brain stuck on had him setting his tea down with a sharp clack. His mother frowned in disapproval, but Draco ignored it.

“I hope you are not suggesting I have some sort of dalliance with Harry Potter!” Some things were unfathomable and that was one of them.

Narcissa smiled at him, like an obtuse child, in the way he used to smile at Crabb and Goyle when they were being overly thick. “Darling, it doesn’t have to be the Potter boy. But someone, maybe? It might ease your stress, you’ve been looking so tired.” 

Draco did look tired. He was too thin now, had bags under his eyes, and always some kind of substance in his veins. Rather than respond to that, he shook his head. “It will definitely not be Potter. I have much better taste than that.”

His mother merely hummed and sipped from her tea again. After a moment, she spoke over the rim. “Oh, and don’t forget to write to your father, dear. He said he misses you.” 

It was a sharp reminder and Draco forced back a grimace. Today was a good day. The conversation and soft, bright lines of Narcissa’s smile almost made him forget. Narcissa was stuck in the past. He wondered when that loop would end, when Draco suddenly aged ten years in front of her? Draco smiled, tight-lipped, and stood to leave. He placed a kiss to her forehead and murmured, “Have a good day, mother.” Her smile softened and she touched his hand as he pulled away.

Her voice trailed after him long after he left, “Don't forget to do your homework, love."

\----

Azkaban was a cold desolate place. Even with the new reforms, nothing could hide what it was. The outside stood grand and foreboding, daring anyone to challenge its dominance. Even with the dementors somewhere hidden away in its belly, Draco felt the chill seep into him. 

Lucius was a fallen angel. There was no more posturing or divine right written into the lines of his body. This was a man who had flown too close to the sun and burned on the way down. Draco tasted bile on his tongue. 

The Malfoy money had purchased certain privileges. Lucius was still in a cold damp cell. However, it was slightly bigger than an average one. And Lucius had more amenities, a couple books, paper, non-lethal quills, and an odd knick-knack or two that his mother had sent as gifts while Lucius was “away.” From his father’s incessant ramblings, he also had better food. The prison reforms Granger had set her mind to, only three years out from school, had somehow made their way to Shacklebolt and passed. It was impressive for a mudblood. 

Draco stepped into the cell, while a guard stood outside to supervise, and Draco swept his eyes over the too familiar surrounding. Piercing blue eyes met his gaze and Draco fought not to become the 11 year old boy he used to be. Ever eager to please and desperate to be acknowledged. 

“Draco, my boy.” Lucius rasped out and cleared his throat. “How are you?” 

Lucius received a thin lipped reply from him. Draco’s visits were not for Lucius’ benefit, but for his mother. Prison had shown how truly cruel his father could be. The only way he’d write to her was if Draco personally came to receive the letters. Draco wanted to put that demand to the test, but he’d seen how his mother wilted when he’d held off on a visit for a few days. And Draco couldn’t handle anymore haunted looks, so he visited. 

Lucius kept talking—undaunted by a lack of response, “How is your mother?” 

“She’s fine. She wrote to you.” He slipped the letter from his pocket. Lucius looked eager and held out a wanting hand. “She thinks you're away on business. Still.”

“Yes, yes. Of course.” Lucius grasped the letter, his fingers a vice grip around the paper. “It’s better that way.”

Draco’s jaw clenched. His mother held on to her sanity with wisp like strength. The longer his father was imprisoned the more she slipped away. Watching her disappear, made him hate Lucius. Draco carried that hate, dripping with shame for being Lucius’ son—for being exactly like him—and it burned bitterly. 

“When your letter is ready, just send it to me by owl. I’ve rented one for the rest of this year.” He turned to leave, but Lucius grasped the sleeve of his shirt. Draco tried to wrench away, but the years of misusing his body caught up with him. Lucius was stronger and held on. 

“Wait! I need to chat with my boy.” The guard shifted from their spot and Lucius released his hold. Draco fought back the rise of panic at almost being confined and looked down to smooth his hands along his shirt to hide his face. Shoving all his rapid fire thoughts away, he missed his body turning numb. The odd thought that he couldn’t feel his hands drifted through him but he let that float away. He had to focus. Draco turned a blank gaze to his father. 

“If the chat doesn’t involve the use of the owl or mother’s letter, we have nothing further to discuss.”

“Come now, I never raised you to be rude, Draco.”

A laugh bubbled from him, too loud and off for the moment. Tears formed and he wiped them away before they turned into something more. “Don’t joke, Lucius. You’ve never been that funny.” 

Lucius’ lips curled, insulted. His arm raised in a familiar swing and Draco would hate himself for flinching if he weren’t numb at the moment. Before the backhand could land, Lucius’ body froze and the guard pulled the door open with a loud swing. 

“Inmate, that is a strike. Visiting privileges are suspended.” 

Lucius’ face contorted into a mask of rage and sudden desperation. “No! Draco, please! Tell him I was only playing. You know I love you, son.” His words turned to groveling and Draco had to look away. All Draco could think was pathetic. 

“Sir, what would you like to do?” the guard asked. 

He shook his head and backed away to leave. “Just let him be.” Lucius’ words of praise fell away as he swept through the halls to leave. The numb spread through him. If Lucius was pathetic then he was a coward for running away. 

\----

Draco was shaking by the time he apparated to Knockturn Alley. A sudden sick wave of shame and need filled him. What he needed was a fix. A forget-me elixir in the form of magic and drugs—easy enough to procure. 

The powder was a baby blue. It looked like sugar and tasted like rain. When Draco took it, everything melted away and left him feeling like an electric current. Giddiness enveloped him, and high off the buzz, he wound his way back to his bar. Because it was his bar, not any of the other forlorn patrons, or stupid fucking Harry Potter’s. His. 

Every drink slid down his throat and settled warm inside him. Fuel to his already crackling flame. Someone said something funny and Draco was rolling. The tears collecting in his eyes swept away in the laughter until he blinked and Harry Potter swam to the surface. Of course, he was there. Draco rarely ever got what he wanted without Potter ruining it. 

Draco was having a hard time focusing and some of Potter’s words slid through him. Concern or maybe accusation dripped in his tone, but Draco didn’t know or care. Harry grasped at his shoulder and squeezed, hard. The touch was a lighting bolt. Draco’s gaze caught on the lighting bolt scar. Harry’s hair was shorter now, the scar finally on display for the world to see. His hand lifted and he was halfway to touching when Harry’s voice finally hooked into him.

“Draco, are you alright, hey, Draco?” Harry kept his hand on his shoulder, but Draco shoved him away. A white-hot brand of anger slipped through his buzz and he twirled to get away. Except, his limbs were a tangle and Potter was still there, saving the day, _again_. Draco did not need to be saved. 

“Shove off, Potter. I don’t need you!” He pushed and Harry released him and then he was on the floor with a thud. People were staring but Draco wasn’t paying attention to them. He was on the floor and staring up at Harry. His vision swam and his eyes closed. It felt nice to close his eyes. It made the lighting in his veins shudder to a low hum. Somewhere someone touched him. Hands curled around his arm and waist and lifted him up. Draco sagged against the warmth. It was too hot, his face was flushed, and he was vaguely aware of the sweat that dripped down his back.

Then, fresh air, a light misting, and Draco opened his eyes. London was always raining, but tonight the mist was gentle and felt good against his feverish skin. He heard a grunt and felt himself press back against a brick wall. Squinting, Draco watched as Harry fumbled to pull out his wand. 

“Whaddyadoin?” It was getting harder to talk and Draco’s mouth tasted like cotton. He smacked his mouth together and attempted to push off the wall and away from Harry.

“Hey, hold on there.” Potter touched his arm. It was light, careful, and not trying to cage him in, but hold him steady. “I’m trying to help you get home.”

Draco shook his head and reached to push Potter’s arm off. It was too much effort and instead his hand fell against Harry’s wrist and stayed. “Nodontwanna.”

Potter sighed in exasperation and grabbed at his waist and pulled Draco in against his chest. 

“I don’t want to splinch you, so just hold still.” 

Draco wanted to respond—protest even—but he was too preoccupied with leaning against Harry. The drugs and alcohol were betraying him because he didn’t object when Harry's grip tightened and his face pressed into Potter's neck. He closed his eyes and suddenly the world shifted. The second his feet hit the ground, the contents of his stomach upended. 

“Fuck, gross!” Harry hissed out and pushed Draco away. Draco stumbled back, knees knocking against something, until he fell down. Soft cushions caught him and he glanced up to see Potter, with a bright blue liquid dripping down his cloak. A laugh burst from him. Harry tried to shush him with a hand.

“My walls are thin, I don’t need you waking the neighbors!”

He kept laughing, but buried it into one of the cushions on the couch he’d fallen on. Soft footfalls drifted around him and away. Draco turned his head and caught the faint outline of Harry as he slipped down a dark hallway. He heard a sigh and felt something fall over him but then it all blurred to blackness.

Draco slept and the buzz drifted from his veins while lightning bolts crackled in his dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's going somewhere, still don't know where.


End file.
